Supper was over, and Helen was sewing.
Fraser and Grant had gone off, and Fothergill occupied the bench along the wall. The light was going and Fothergill thought Helen sewed mechanically. All was quiet, and the belt of red sky the window commanded was cut by the dusky woods.
Fothergill did not particularly want to talk. He mused about the evening when Rose joined him by the river. Perhaps he was ridiculous, but he felt humiliated. Rose was disturbing, and he did not want to be disturbed; somehow he knew if he allowed her to work on him he would run a risk. Helen was not like that. She was calm and sincere. She did not try to carry one away; her society was soothing. After a time, she looked up.
“Isn’t the police’s habit to patrol the country?”
“Why, yes,” Fothergill agreed. “When our
